Excerpts from Philosophers’ Love Letters

The only thing I know is that I know nothing. We've gathered at the agora several times and discussed our shared regard for divinity, but I hardly know anything about you! Have you always been a midwife? Would you pursue virtue over material wealth? How many siblings do you have? I am ignorant of many things, but I do understand something about the art of love: it's just asking a lot of questions until the other person is too tired to go on. Shall I continue?—Socrates

Before we met, I was trapped deep within a cave, and had no way out. But you were my light, and led me from the darkness. I'd love if the two of us could leave the cave sometime and embrace our enlightened selves over dinner. My good friend Diogenes is playing his harp at the first set of the sun later, if you'd like to join me.—Plato

Illustrations by Hallie Bateman

It seems to me that it is essential to eliminate doubt and determine certainty. So I have to ask: When I watched you prepare Queen Christina of Sweden's robes, and you looked back at me, was that an I-could-be-interested kind of look, or did you just have something in your eye? I'll understand if you do not wish to respond. Uncertainty is the only true certainty, after all. —Descartes

I must admit, your support for women's rights is quite arousing. It's that look in your eyes when you argue that women should be educated. It's the way your arms tense up when you tell others that we should not be traded as property. It's that smile. (It's just nice that you have most of your teeth, honestly.) Shall we meet for the protest outside the National Assembly at dawn?—Mary Wollstonecraft

Your mind is a blank slate, my dear girl, but I am here to color it with knowledge. What you need is an older man who can define the self through a continuity of consciousness and also survive the Great Plague. I have done both of these things. Now, I'm afraid your love is as infectious as a rapidly spreading disease, your smile as contagious as an infected rat flea. Sorry, this plague is really getting to me. If we survive, I'd love to see you again. —John Locke

By the time you finish reading this letter, you will have realized that there is no actual conception of the self. There is no "you" and "I." There are, however, a bundle of sensations that we experience: that day we met outside my family home in Berwickshire; the way you cried ever so deeply when you found out I was an atheist; how repulsed you looked after you discovered I had scurvy. I love you, and these moments make us who we are. I may put the "Hume" in humor, but this is no joke.—David Hume

My dearest Frank, I was instantly drawn to you. Not just because my visa was about to expire but also because you were surprisingly good-looking for an American. Objectivism claims that happiness is the moral purpose of life, and I'm quite sure that objectifying you will make me happy. You live by your own efforts. You honor and respect achievement. You stay on your side of the bed. That is all I need.—Ayn Rand

O Émilie du Châtelet, you are quite a dream!I hope you like caustic men with low self-esteem.The only thing I'd love more than separation of church and state,Is to finally take you out on a date.The way you study physics makes my heart grow weak;When you translate "Principia Mathematica," I can barely speak.Together, let us determine the elements of fire,And then who knows what may transpire!The French government can try to suppress my views,But you will forever and always be my muse.Allow me to learn from your brilliant mind,And occasionally glance at that nice behind.—Voltaire

Permit me to deduce the reason we should be together. If Aristotle is a man, and all men enjoy sexual intercourse, then Aristotle would surely enjoy sexual intercourse. Now, I know what you're thinking—you're afraid I'm using you as an instrumental good. But you can't blame me if the end is happiness. Let's just say I'll see you at nine.—Aristotle

We desire meaning, and yet we cannot have it. Instead, we are bound to live a tragic existence, trying to make sense of a world in which I am forced to write you six letters in a row, and receive no response. Six. Don't you understand? I desire you, and yet I cannot have you. Why does the Absurd taunt me so? Is it something I said? Seriously, you can tell me. I can no longer stand the cruel, indifferent silence of the universe. Like, just a response would be nice. Or you know what? I don't even care anymore. Don't go out with me. I'm going to die soon anyway, and life is better without meaning. That way I can never be disappointed.—Albert Camus

It is essential to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. And what I certainly do not wish for myself is another disappointing date. How can we live our fullest, most compassionate lives by just going to the same bars over and over again? This is the time for change. The Golden Age of dating is not over. No, it has just begun.—Confucius

Is it better to be loved than feared or feared than loved? I have always found it safer to be feared, but with you something feels different. I find myself being able to trust again, although can you ever truly trust anyone? Dishonesty and deviousness are surely useful in the political realm, but I want to be honest with you. Let me begin by confessing that I was friends with Leonardo da Vinci. I'm changing, though, I promise. It is 1505, after all. New Year, new me!—Niccolò Machiavelli

I'm staring at an old photograph of us, but can't figure it out. We're at a bar and looking off into the distance at something—I can't remember what it was. I do know that it was fifty-six. You're smiling and holding a glass of wine, which is almost empty. Your hand is gently resting on my arm. Normally, I know all the signs. The wine is our signifier, of course, and the signified is a hopeless bourgeois ideal. But what did it all mean? I thought we were having a nice time. And yet you never called. Why? I thought I could employ semiotics to understand what went wrong, but apparently I have much to learn.—Roland Barthes

I've loved you ever since we were children. Some of my dearest memories involve playing in the streets of Trier and reading about political liberalism together in secret. Seeing as we're both workers of the world, I was thinking we could unite over a pint of Krombacher later?—Karl Marx

Dear Lou,

Below you will find ten reasons why I believe we should be married:

I know I proposed to you twice before and you refused, but I am positive that the third time's the charm.

You're the first female psychoanalyst, which I totally respect.

You get along well with Freud, so I already know you're great with my friends.

You're my favorite intellectual protégé.

You love writing about the erotic nature of women and how sexual difference runs deeper than economics. I'm very into that, and also enjoy anything erotic.

We're both big Ibsen fans.

You always smell nice.

I adore your boyish curiosity and rugged complexion.

We both share a passion for critiquing reason and rejecting objective truth.

I am so alone.

—Friedrich Nietzsche

From "Love Voltaire Us Apart: A Philosopher's Guide to Relationships," by Julia Edelman, illustrated by Hallie Bateman, to be published by Icon Books.